Monthly Archives: August 2008

I opened my parents’ pool filter today and there was this turtle, just barely afloat, with two resourceful friends riding the crown of her back. In the chlorine around them, dead frogs and insects bobbed belly-up, not nearly so lucky.

I saved your ass!

My mom said this scenario would make a good children’s story, so here goes:

Once upon a time, there was a baby turtle who lived in a back yard in Virginia. One August day, her dumb ass crawled into a swimming pool. Then some other dumbass animals jumped into the water after her even though it was obviously a swimming pool made for human beings and not a pond or lake or whatever made for amphibians.

Eventually all the animals got sucked butt-first into the pool filter.

Crickets and frogs swelled, then drowned, when they grew tired of treading water in this fatal lagoon. But not the turtle. The turtle didn’t know that her cause was hopeless – that she might as well be trying to swim across the Pacific Ocean – so she kept paddling in the inescapable filter. An exhausted baby toad swam up to the turtle’s buoyed shell.

“Please, turtle,” said the toad, “may I climb on your back and rest my poopy legs?”

“Do I have a choice?” said the turtle.

“No, you definitely do not,” said the toad.

“Whatever,” sighed the turtle, and the toad hopped on her back. But the toad’s weight was not much of a burden, and eventually the two of them got to talking in a friendly way about gas prices and Obama and the lawn mower that routinely tried to decapitate them.

Then a little spider swam up to the turtle. “Do you mind administering my Last Rites and then killing me in a way so that I won’t suffer?”

“I have a better idea,” said the turtle. “Climb on my back.” The spider crawled up the turtle’s shell. She was high and dry. It was a miracle. With her hairy arms she made the sign of the cross on her cephalothorax.

The toad also wanted to be heroic. “Climb on my back,” she said to the spider. “I’ll save you.” Even though the spider had already been saved, she climbed on the toad’s back so the toad would feel useful. Then they bobbed up and down in the filter for several days chatting about the DNC and cannibalism.

Finally, a beautiful princess wearing a bikini opened the pool filter to check for cool dead stuff that she could ask her dad to dispose of later. “You guys, c’mere,” she said in her mellifluous voice. “You’ve got to see this shit.” Then a crowd of human faces was peering down at the miserable, bloated totem pole of turtle, toad, and spider.

“She must be an angel,” said the spider.

“Hold on – don’t take them out of the water yet,” said the angel. “Let me get my camera first.”

After a round of digital pictures, the creatures were released into the wilds of the back yard. Like three scoops of disgusting ice cream, they held formation as they rode. And they all lived happily ever after.

The turtle is currently writing a memoir that she hopes will be optioned by Pixar.

Looking for Someone to Recite Pledge of Allegiance While I Masturbate – 28 (East Village)

Hello, I am a SWM looking for someone to come to my apartment to recite the pledge of Allegiance while I masturbate to the Democratic National Convention on TV and ejaculate onto an American flag. Age and physical appearance do not matter, but a background in politics and law would be ideal.

I also have it on good authority that the same lonely gentleman recently posted the following two Craigslist personal ads:

Grocer Seeks Anal Foreplay

I am a 29-year-old grocery bagger at Trader Joe’s seeking a woman interested in engaging in anal foreplay. I have been working in the Union Square Trader Joe’s for 2 years now and am hoping to soon be promoted to manager. Trader Joe’s is an excellent place to work: Congenial coworkers, excellent benefits and 401K, and a culture that rewards excellence. My ideal mate would be as enthusiastic about Trader Joe’s as I am, and would also have a extensive background in rimming, analingus, and bead use.

IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN DATING A GROCER BUT ARE NOT WILLING TO ENGAGE IN ANAL FOREPLAY, PLEASE DO NOT RESPOND.

IF YOU ARE WILLING TO ENGAGE IN ANAL FOREPLAY BUT ARE NOT ACCEPTING OF THE TRADER JOE’S LIFESTYLE, YOU MAY RESPOND, BUT DO NOT EXPECT OUR RELATIONSHIP TO WORK OUT IN THE LONG RUN.

The perfect match will be readily aware that the notion of “love” can be reduced to nothing more than a series of chemical reactions, and that mating rituals such as “dance” and “presents” are superfluous acts that should be immediately dispensed of.

She will understand that human beings themselves are nothing more than a particularly complex swarm of cells and that any attempts to claim that we are somehow fundamentally different from other animals is to betray a complete denial of science. Therefore, she will not cry when men die.

She will readily admit that Earth and all its inhabitants are infinitely inconsequential specks of dust and that God would not shed a single tear were the planet to be spontaneously destroyed in a supernova next week.

She must be a decent cook.

If you are interested in assisting me in satisfying my base, biologically-programmed need, please respond. If not, it doesn’t matter, since we will all be rotting in the ground soon.

Craigslist Author, please come forward. I have taken the liberty of outing your fetishes so you will no longer feel ashamed. Maybe you can find true love among my readers, the most compassionate and loyal perverts on the web.

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I bought three expensive bridal magazines this weekend so I could include my bedridden Georgia grandmother in my wedding planning. But no one seems less interested in looking at the glossy photos than me and and my grandmother, so I have delegated the wedding planning to Big Wistar’s round-the-clock nurses Elaine and Sheila. Together we sit on the couch during their shifts and decide what my colors will be and how I will wear my hair. By these means I have learned a lot about weddings, especially what not to do.

For instance, Elaine has a cousin whose recent wedding incorporated two matrons of honor, two maids of honor, thirteen bridesmaids, four flower girls, two ring men, and a “mini bride” who wore an exact replica of her wedding dress. I rolled my eyes at this litany of attendants until Elaine came to the mini bride.

“What a great idea,” I thought. “Here’s a chance for a young girl or perhaps a little person to experience the ritual of marriage alongside an average-sized bride. She can duplicate the whole ceremony on a smaller, more adorable scale. We can build a playhouse church beside the grown-up church and serve miniature glasses of non-alcoholic champagne ordered from the American Girl catalogue. Imagine what cute and precocious sex the mini bride and groom will have on their honeymoon!”

Wait. . .what? Get these damn kids out of my wedding.

I told my godmother Susannah about the mini bride idea and she said that it would be even more festive to have a giant bride accompany me down the aisle wearing a size 62 matching gown and carrying a flowering hedge for a bouquet. I think this would only be effective if the giant bride could breathe fire or reenact the climactic scene from Iron Man. Then I thought about hiring the girl from Shentai who performs with a flaming hula hoop.

I know every engaged woman says this eventually, but I am turning into Bridezilla. I literally want an enraged circus performer to storm the wedding ceremony and set all the decorations on fire like the legendary gorilla that invaded Manhattan. I think that would make a really fun party. And I would look beautiful surrounded by all those burning centerpieces.

3. They’re confused by the small pile of lettuce on the sandwich plate. What is this green stuff? Am I supposed to eat this? What is this for? I have to go to the bathroom.

Why elderly ladies in Georgia get together for lunch every Saturday, even during Hurricane Fay:

1. A weekly ritual reminds them they’re still in the game. Also, they can show off their white bouffant hairdos after they take off their rain bonnets.

2. While dining they can pile all their purses, canes, walkers, and wet umbrellas in the corner of the restaurant, forming a sort of geriatric still-life that is only disturbed when someone demands a Kleenex or a cardigan sweater.

3. They can quiz me – the granddaughter guest – about Islam, existentialism, my upcoming nuptials, and the quality of my soup. Then they can send me to retrieve their friend who got lost on her way back from the bathroom. Then I can check their bills (split 12 ways) to ensure they left at least 5% for the waiter.

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The road from Charlottesville, Virginia, to Columbus, Georgia, should be renamed Slaughterhouse Highway. Every other vehicle on Route 29 South is a truck carrying livestock to their imminent deaths. Yesterday I saw blonde chickens with breasts pumped so full of water they could hardly stand upright in their cramped metal cages. I saw cattle stomping nervously in trailers with their big brown eyes peering at me through air holes. “Save us,” they said. “Hijack this truck and drive us to Mexico.”

“I’ll never eat meat again,” I thought. “I love you guys.”

Then we stopped at Applebee’s for dinner and I accidentally ate a big pile of microwaved chicken. I am such an asshole.

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I just heard that LeRoi Moore, sax player for Charlottesville’s Dave Matthews Band, passed away this afternoon. I don’t confess to be the band’s biggest fan, but in my experience the guys and their families are kind, caring, and down-to-earth people. I’m sorry to hear about their loss. My little sister is working the DMB show tonight at the Staples Center in LA, and I know it must be a strange and heavyhearted scene. Big love from Charlottesville.

The worst thing about being a blogger is that the internet keeps going even when you’re too lazy or busy to check on it. At any given moment bloggers feel pressured to know exactly what the internet is doing, who the internet hooked up with the night before, what the internet ate for breakfast, etc. It’s exhausting. And if days go by without tracking every internet hiccup or virtual bowel movement, you feel like you’re a bad blogger. You’ll never catch up with all the action. There are too many missing links.

That’s why I’m going to take one more day to focus purely on me, myself, and my personal life – subjects that will always be fresh and exciting to us all. Namely, I’m recently engaged to be married to the bbf (blogging boyfriend). Or is he now the bfh (blogging future husband)? Or perhaps the bbr (blogger with buyer’s remorse)?

But hold your gift baskets! Recork the Cristal! Cancel your order for the matching china set from the Pottery Barn! We are determined to do this as minimally as possible. You can just send cash or check to my PO box.

In the coming months I will discover what engagements and weddings are all about. I will finish reading Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. I will send all my two dozen bridesmaids to the spa to get Botoxed at their own expense. I will coach my uppity flower girl to act less adorable so she won’t eclipse me on my special day. I will sample frosted layer cakes and brag to you about how delicious they are. Finally, I will admit to the bbf that I’m not actually pregnant with triplets or going to war but unfortunately he can’t revoke the proposal because the wheels are already in motion.

I am the prettiest princess! It’s me! In your FACE, less pretty princesses!

I’m tickled to be back (as of Tuesday) in Charlottesville, Virginia, with a Lisbon cat in my luggage. I didn’t open the bag to let the cat out until last night, and by that time the cat was really hungry. Then she meowed and purred nonstop, drawing excessive amounts of attention to herself until all I wanted to do was zip her back into my rolling suitcase. But the cat is not going back into the bag, and you’ll know what I’m talking about soon enough.

In any case, I’m back in town and back on the blog. I’m also loving C-Ville Weekly’s Editor-in-Chief Cathy Harding (arm wrestling name “The Punctuator“) right now for calling me one of Charlottesville’s unsung heroes. She might not have used those exact words, but you certainly can.

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I fell in love tonight. It’s not unusual for an overseas tourist to throw her heart and soul into a single night of passion with a man she might never see again. The tourist might meet the beloved in an otherwise empty bookstore beside the most popular gelato joint in town. She might steal superficial glances at him for a while before she makes her bold move.

The vacationer’s beloved is typically from a different country but he shares a common language. The beloved abroad is usually older than the female tourist, more widely traveled, more experienced in the bedrooms and bars of the world. His devil-may-care attitude belies his sensitivity and depth of emotion, which the impressionable female tourist picks up on immediately. He tells absurd, filthy, drug-addled stories that make the tourist laugh out loud. The dazzled female tourist would write the stories in her diary, but the beloved already has. I’ll even give you the name of the book: Yoga for People Who Can’t Be Bothered to Do Itby Geoff Dyer.

I found the book this afternoon and bought it for the bbf who, like me, has run out of reading material in Portugal. So I can blame him for my illicit love affair with Geoff Dyer, my English diamond in the rough.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I spent my last Friday night in Portugal reading about Dyer’s exploits abroad. Yoga for People Who Can’t Be Bothered is a travelogue of sorts, a collection of autobiographical essays that walk the line between the ridiculous and the profound. If I were to look up reviews of Dyer’s books right now, I’d probably discover that other fans have already written those same cliche’d words. Just like if Geoff Dyer was my vacation beloved in person, I’d probably find on Facebook tomorrow that he’d seduced naive American girls all over Europe.

But I don’t want to spoil this new love with internet research. There might still be a chance for me and Dyer. I might find one of his novels at Heathrow Airport on Tuesday when we make our way home to Virginia. I might buy it even though I’ve already started feeling guilty for falling in love with a perfect stranger. And shamefully, when Dyer’s book was in my bed earlier this evening, I didn’t put on my reading glasses, even though I knew I’d regret it in the morning.